


Sam's Progress

by mad_martha



Series: All Roads Lead To Haven [4]
Category: Supernatural, Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Cucumbers, Dean Winchester is a good brother, Drama, Family Drama, Fantasy Law Enforcement, Gen, Innuendo, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 19:56:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15803505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mad_martha/pseuds/mad_martha
Summary: In which Dean Winchester is a good brother.





	Sam's Progress

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short story, running with an idea I had that I wanted to get out of my head. (An actual short story from me! Now there's a novelty.) More thinky-thoughts at the end.

The summer heat was wearing on Dean a little.  Everyone liked to see the sun, of course, and he was no exception to that, but trawling the streets of lower Haven in a Watch Officer's uniform was no joke when the temperature was making the cobbles hot enough to fry eggs.  He could shed the long-sleeved canvas tunic, but the tough leather jerkin over heavy linen shirts still made for a sticky, uncomfortable shift, no matter how good linen supposedly was at 'wicking' sweat away.

"Are Sam and Adam coming home soon, or did they get better offers?" Jo asked, as the two of them paused by one of the public water troughs and pumped enough water to splash their faces with.  The Collegia had closed for the summer.

"They both got offered hands-on training," Dean said, working the pump handle.  "Adam's off helping to rebuild a watermill, and Sam's gone with a circuit judge to Runefork to handle the trial of a murderer.  He'll be back first – Adam's gone right out to Tindale.  But they'll both be staying with me for the rest of the holiday."

"Do you think Sam'll actually become a judge?" Jo asked, as they set off again.

"No idea."

Which ... wasn't exactly true.  Certainly, Dean had no idea what the future held for anyone, least of all his younger brothers, but he knew a little bit about the judiciary and he'd had misgivings for some time about Sam's prospects in that direction.  Sam was bright and dedicated and his teachers all spoke well of his abilities, but no one knew better than Dean how little that could mean sometimes.  Those who practised law at the judiciary level – other than Heralds - were usually highborns.  It was one of the few professions seen as being respectable enough for the younger sons of the nobility to practice, and as a consequence the positions that became available were jealously sought after and not necessarily awarded on merit.

Unless he got exceptionally lucky, it was more likely that Sam would have to accept a position much more humble.  Dean didn't know how realistically Sam viewed his own prospects, but he had a suspicion that his younger brother was overly optimistic about them and that at some point reality would come crashing in upon him, potentially leading to some very unpleasant fallout.

And there was nothing he could do about that.

So he wasn't entirely surprised a tenday later to arrive back at the Roadhouse Inn after his shift to find Sam staring morosely into a mug of cider at the bar while the usual midevening mayhem of the inn went on around him.

Dean managed to waylay Podina as she wove through the throng carrying impressive numbers of filled tankards in each hand.  He nodded at Sam's hunched shoulders.  "How many's he had so far?"

"Two," she said, dumping six tankards on the nearest table, handing off two of them, and scooping up the remaining four, all with one hand.

"He eaten anything?"

"Not yet."

"What's the special tonight?"

"Pea and ham soup," she said, and went to hand off more tankards.

"Awesome," Dean muttered.  Hot food in this heat seemed a little counterproductive, although Anaelia's pea soup might be the best thing for supper if Sam was planning to drown his sorrows.  It was usually stiff enough to stand a spoon up in.

He pushed his way through the crowd and managed to squeeze into the space next to his brother.  Sam didn't even look up.

"You found your fortune in that yet?"

"What fortune?" Sam said, and Dean had to stomp on the urge to roll his eyes.

"If you're planning to drown your sorrows, eat something first.  And tell me what the problem is _before_ you forget how to string a sentence together."

"Anything else?" Sam demanded, in such a snide tone that Dean gave in and rolled his eyes anyway.

"Yeah – if you throw up in the night, you clean it up yourself.  I'm not paying Ellen extra for Tamar or Podina to do it."

"I'm not going to get drunk!" Sam said sullenly.

"Glad to hear it.  Eat something anyway."  Dean caught Ellen's eye and ordered two bowls of soup.

"I hate pea soup," Sam grumbled.

"Shut up, I'm paying for it."

The two bowls of soup arrived with a platter of bread and cheese and a pitcher of small beer – also an exasperated eye-roll from Ellen, who was never blind to the way the wind was blowing.  Dean thanked her and elbowed Sam – gently – in the ribs.  "Grab your soup and the beer.  We'll eat upstairs."

The fact that Sam went along with this told Dean that his brother was at least ready to offload whatever grief was sitting on his chest.  The absence of his girlfriend Jessica, who Dean already knew to be doing an unwilling round of visits to her mother's relatives out at Three Rivers, was probably pushing matters too, as Dean was pretty sure Sam would far rather be drowning his sorrows in Jess's bosom.

How willing the feisty, realist Jess would be to let him was best left unexamined.

In the privacy of his rooms they first had to evict Dean's cat, Baby, from the table.  She was deeply offended by this, and even more so when the two of them failed to offer her any recompense in the form of cheese.

"It's bad for you," Dean told her.

Indignant, Baby proceeded to sit by the closed door onto the landing and cry until he groaned and got up to let her out.  She stalked out, tail twitching, and went to seek more sympathetic company in the kitchen below.

"That's me with hairballs in my blankets tomorrow," Dean said, resigned.  He took his seat opposite Sam, and dug his spoon out of his belt-pouch.  "If you're not gonna talk, put some food in your belly," he advised Sam, who was listlessly stirring his soup.  "When did you get back anyway?"

"A few hours ago."  Sam picked up a piece of bread and dipped it in his bowl.  "There was a beer wagon heading this way, I hitched a ride."

"Right."  Dean waited.  "And how was your road trip?" he prompted eventually.

Sam hitched his shoulder, and slowly consumed his soggy crust.

This was going to be a long meal.

"Look," Dean said patiently, "I'm good but sometimes you gotta use words, Sammy." 

Which wasn't entirely true, but while Dean knew there was a sporting chance he could just go into Sam's head and rummage for the information, he also knew that it would (a) be about as much fun as fishing for a lost coin in a midden, and (b) grossly unethical and also horribly unfair to his kid brother, who deserved the respect of letting him his use his actual words, instead of snatching at whatever the hell was swirling around between his ears at any given moment.

"I feel like a chump," Sam muttered.

"Welcome to three quarters of my life."  Another pause.  This was like pulling teeth.  "Why?"

"I went there to learn how a circuit judge works and instead I got stuck taking all his notes for him while Brady got to play the apprentice!" Sam blurted out, and his face turned scarlet with rage and mortification.

Dean had to turn this over in his head a couple of times before he thought he understood what had actually happened – at least from Sam's viewpoint.  "Who's Brady?"

"A guy from my class."

"One of the other Blues?"

"Yeah."

Which meant his family were most likely rich and potentially had titles.  Sam was the only scholarship student taking law at present.

"So his daddy's got money and he knows how to use it," Dean summed up.  "He a dick about it as well?"

Sam was a fundamentally fair person, even when he was angry.  "Not most of the time."  He gritted his teeth, and added, "Not even this time, I guess.  But it's like ... he didn't even notice.  Judge Kello said to take notes of the cases for him and Brady just ..."

"Sat on his ass and let you do it, like it's never his job to take anyone else's notes?"

Sam sagged a bit.  "Yeah."

Dean considered him for a few moments.  "Did that judge ask you to do it, or did he just toss it out there like he was waiting to see who'd volunteer?"

Sam opened his mouth, paused, shut it again and frowned.  "I ... I thought he was looking at me."

"Sure about that?"

" ... No."

"So he could've just been waiting to see which one of you was going to actually help him out.  And your buddy Brady sat on his hands while you showed you could do the work."

This was clearly such a novel idea that Sam forgot himself and began to eat hungrily as he mentally pushed the thought around a bit.  Privately more than a little relieved, Dean left him to it and dug into his own meal.  They were wiping their bowls with the last couple of crusts before he decided to push a little more wisdom his brother's way.

"Look, Sammy," he said.  "You and me, we know how the world works, yeah?  Rich folk and folk with titles, they already got a foot in the door wherever they go, right?  Hell, some of 'em own the goddamn door and the house it's hanging on.  I don't like it, you don't like it, ain't no one for a mile around us likes it, but that's just the way it is."

"It's not fair," Sam said, but the childish whine at the back of his voice was weak compared to the weary resignation that was taking its place as he grew up.

"Nothing's fair," Dean told him.  "Life's a fuck-up and we all gotta deal with that.  But that don't mean you gotta lie down and take it all the time.  And if you don't get a hold on how you deal with this shit, you're gonna have a rough ride to your grave.  So you gotta stop looking at things the wrong way and you gotta start working shit to your own advantage.  You hearin' me?"

"How am I supposed to work this to my advantage?" Sam demanded.

Dean raised his eyebrows.  "You already _did_.  Brady sat on his butt and looked pretty.  _You_ grabbed a pen and started taking notes.  Who do you think that judge is gonna be glad he took with him?"

Sam started to look more thoughtful.

"And yeah, maybe he'll be grateful, maybe he won't, but you can bet your ass he ain't gonna be remembering your buddy for good reasons.   He'll remember the guy who took notes for him.  Something else," Dean told him, warming to his theme.  "When you go back to school at the end of summer, you'll be ahead of the game, because you actually did some real work while you were out with that judge."

"Yeah ... I guess."

"You can build on that," Dean suggested.  "Tomorrow I'm in court in the Artisan District with Bela Talbot.  She had a warrant out on a sick son of a bitch and yours truly caught him right here in the Strangers Quarter.  I gotta see him delivered to court and testify to where we found him.  Why don't you come along and watch?  It's a Herald's Court.  Be good to see how they work compared to the circuit judges." 

Sam brightened.  "Yeah ... yeah, all right.  I'll do that.  Is that the only case they're hearing?"

"Doubt it, but he's first on the docket.  We had to hand him over to Water Street so they could lock in him the guardhouse till his trial – his buddies made a couple attempts to break him out of the Watch House, and I wasn't about to see him get loose after what it took to dig him out of the hole he hid himself in."

"I could watch a couple of the other cases too, that'd be good.  It'll look good if I can say I did that when I'm back in class."

"That's the idea."  Dean sat back, pleased that he'd managed to turn the crisis around.  "Right – let's have a beer then hit the sack.  We gotta be up early if we're to hit Glassblower Alley bright and early."

 

xXx

 

_So, honeybunch,_ Dean said, pulling his pillow into a comfortable position and stretching his feet out, _how was your day?_

_You're funny_ , Castiel told him sarcastically, but Dean could feel his amusement.  _I saw a lot of road today.  Again.  What about you?_

There was a practical purpose to their nightly MindSpeech 'calls', namely testing out Dean's mental range in preparation for the inevitable separation when Castiel went out on circuit for real.  But also they just enjoyed the contact; much of their relationship was spent at an unavoidable distance, and MindSpeech was the only thing that made it bearable.

_Aw, c'mon,_ Dean said. _It's hot enough to roast nuts on the desk in my office and the whole city feels like we're holding a mass sweating competition.  At least you get to ride through the shady, leafy countryside instead of chasing assholes in and out of taverns._

Castiel snorted.  _Behold my current luxurious quarters –_   He sent Dean an image of the inside of a small, very poorly lit stone hut.  The floor was made of stone flags, there were stone or ceramic storage containers against one of the walls, and the main feature of the place was the two narrow sleeping boxes and a fireplace that currently held nothing but old, charred bits of kindling.  _Sitwell and I won the coin toss for the waystation tonight.  I'm not sure this is an improvement on sleeping outside, to be honest._

_Better than letting the insects have a free meal._ Dean grinned.  _So that's a waystation!  Damn.  Pretty sure my dad broke into a couple of those when he was dragging us all to Haven.  He said they were shepherds' huts._

_The penalties for breaking into a waystation are quite high, if you're caught,_ Castiel commented.

_Sure they are.  Using up or stealing the supplies potentially puts a Herald's life at risk._

Castiel sighed.  _Well, I now know more about waystations than I think I will ever need to know.  Go ahead, ask me a question._

_What did Sitwell say he was dragging you guys out there for?_

_A lesson in 'waystation etiquette', which, by the way, largely amounts to instructions on how to fumigate one's waystation before using it, and a strong exhortation to replenish the firewood supply before leaving._

_Sounds to me like Sitwell was looking for an excuse to go camping for a few days._

_He probably was.  He's the kind of Herald – so I'm told – who lives to be in the saddle.  The problem is that the injury to his eyesight makes circuit riding impossible for him._   Dean could sense Castiel settling himself in the bunk – it didn't have a mattress, but there was something stuffed in there to make it more comfortable.  It still fell short of the sawdust-filled mattress Dean himself was resting on.  _So – how was your day?_

_Like I said, a lotta chasing assholes.  And then I came home and had to deal with the asshole currently snoring in the next room._

_Ah – Sam?_

_Yep._   It was Dean's turn to sigh. _He had a run-in with reality and didn't like it much._   He gave Castiel a rapid run-down of the talk he'd had with his brother, something which was much quicker and easier with MindSpeech.  _Least I managed to talk him down._

Castiel was silent for a moment or two.  _Sam is an idealist,_ he said finally.

_Yeah,_ Dean said heavily.  _Gotta wonder where he gets that from.  Ain't gonna lead him anywhere good if he can't get over it._

_Had you considered talking to him about it?_

_Cas, just talking to him tonight felt like walking on a tightrope.  I don't think he's ready to hear that he'll probably never be a circuit judge.  And he sure as hell ain't gonna listen to me saying it._

_Perhaps not,_ Castiel admitted.

_I wish like hell my dad hadn't encouraged him.  Don't get me wrong, learning's a good thing, but it's gotta be the right kinda learning.  Folks like us can't afford to waste time on shit that'll never be useful._

_I think you're mistaken to say it'll never be useful.  But Sam needs to accept that it might have to be useful in a different way to the one he wants._

Dean had already gone down that murky path in his head and he didn't like where it led.  The thought of trying to make Sam see the same outcomes was one that twisted his gut nastily.  _Sam wants a lot of things, not just that, and I'm pretty sure he's not ready to hear he won't get to have them._

_Then you have to keep pushing him in the right direction and hope he works it out for himself_ , Castiel said gently.

Dean sighed again.  _"Yeah, I guess so."_

 

xXx

 

If there was one thing a Watch Officer had in common with the Guard, it was the ability to wake up at any time they set for themselves, regardless of how their 'body clock' was operating.  Knowing that he needed to be up just before dawn, despite this being at variance with the shift he was currently working, Dean was awake in good time.

Sam – not so much.  He was used to being woken by the Collegium bells, which were rung even in the boarding houses many of the Blues lived in, and consequently he didn't need to worry about waking himself up in good time for his day.  He was less than happy to be shaken awake by his older brother, who only laughed at his snarl of displeasure.

Then he tried to turn over and go back to sleep, only to dislodge Baby who was sleeping in the small of his back, and his morning started with the excitement of a hissing, furious cat sinking her claws into his buttocks.

Dean very kindly didn't laugh at him a second time when he erupted into the laundry for a bath, wild-haired, wild-eyed and swearing up a streak under his breath.

Well.  He put a lid on his laughter until he was out of earshot, anyway.

Tamar was barely beginning her early morning round of opening the shutters and poking up the kitchen fire by the time the two of them were dressed, so Dean bought them a breakfast of hot fresh bread from the bakery in Hemp Alley, and they got stinging hot mint tea from a street cart a short while later.  The walk to Glassblower Alley was at least cooler than it would be later in the morning.

They were turning into the Alley when a heavy Guard wagon rumbled past them, and Dean heaved a sigh of relief.  "At least they didn't run into any trouble getting him here," he commented.

"You really think someone would try to break him out of the Guardhouse?" Sam asked, surprised.

"Maybe not the Guardhouse, but there's a few ways I could think of getting him out of the wagon," Dean replied.  "And they tried hard enough to get him out of our lock-up."

Apparently Captain Talbot entertained a few of the same fears.  She had two shifts on duty to prevent any incidents for the short time that the defendant would be in her lock-up that morning, and her paranoia was not without justification.  Water Street had sent just four Guardsmen to escort the miscreant, one of whom was also the wagon-driver, and the Guardsman in charge wanted to deposit their man into the Watch's hands and depart - although not if Bela Talbot had her way.

"Your orders state quite clearly that you are to escort the prisoner to the court house," she was saying coldly, as Dean and Sam walked into the Watch House.  "I don't care what you think you were told.  If you and your fellows try to take that wagon anywhere before my prisoner is secured in the court cells, I will be having words with your commanding officer and seeing the lot of you up on charges.  Are we clear?"

"Ain't our job to do the Watch's dirty work," the Guardsman said, with breathtaking insolence, and Dean sighed as he recognised the insinuating nasal voice.

"Pyote – did I just hear you sassing Captain Talbot?" he asked, putting just enough stress on her title to make the other Guards twitch.  As a professional courtesy Watch Captains effectively held the same rank and privileges as a Captain of the Guard, and lower ranking Guardsmen were expected to respect that.

Guardsman Pyote – a terrible advertisement for his own profession – was probably too lazy to twitch or jump with surprise, and Dean already knew that he only cared so far as his own self-interest was concerned.  If there was trouble coming to any of these Guardsmen he knew it was unlikely to touch him, and there was little he liked more than twisting the tails of the Watch, regardless of the rank of the officer in question.  Dean, however, had recently entered the privileged ranks of those few Watch officers Pyote was a little more wary of, by virtue of being reasonably sure that he knew who Pyote's well-connected protector was and not being afraid to let Pyote know that.

He eyed Dean up and down, presumably to let Dean know that he wasn't intimidated by him, but backed down.  "Just statin' a fact," he said.  "We'll wait."  Then he hitched up his breeches which, given his considerable paunch and the condition his regulation belt was in, were perpetually at risk of going astray, and sauntered over to join his fellow Guardsmen.

When Dean looked at Bela, she looked angry enough to bite and the look she was pinning on Pyote's back was not one Dean would have liked focussed on him.  He was a little surprised by her reaction, in truth, for he'd long suspected Bela of having some sort of connection with the Guardsman.  Not, of course, that that necessarily prevented her also wanting to do him severe damage, and in Dean's opinion Bela Talbot was not the sort to let a little animosity get in the way of business.  Still ... it was unexpected.

He raised his eyebrows at her.  "We ready to go?"

"Almost," she said curtly.  "I just want to have a final word with my crew.  Since Water Street decided a skeleton guard was sufficient, I'll be augmenting it with my own people.  I am _not_ going to risk this man escaping this morning."

"Good idea," Dean agreed.  "How 'bout I meet you there?  I got my brother with me, he wants to watch how the court works today."

Bela was briefly diverted.  "Is that Sam?  Why on earth would he waste a day watching people getting their wrists slapped by a Herald?  Doesn't he know it's the summer break?"

Dean raised his hands wryly.  "Hey, we all got our hobbies."

She snorted.  "So I'm told.  I'll see you there."

"Better we walk there separately," Dean told Sam, as they left the Watch House again.  "I reckon there's gonna be a crowd and they might start throwing shit if they get excited.  Let Bela and her crew deal with that."

"What did he do?" Sam asked, as they edged around milling citizens in the surrounding streets.

"Bunch of nasty rapes," Dean said shortly.  "Most of 'em were underage, but the one that's gonna see him hanged is the twelve year-old boy he raped and strangled.  Plus he owned a couple brothels.  Most of 'em were legit businesses, but the one I caught him in had a hidden basement where they were pimping out little girls."

"And people were trying to free him from the Watch House," Sam said, his voice flat with disbelief.

"Sure.  You don't run that kind of business without a bunch of pals to help you out.  Lot of people were invested in what he was doing – still are, most likely, that's why I want to see him hang, not sent to the quarries.  If he's alive he can still pull their strings." 

Sam made a face at the brutality of this (he and Dean had had a few arguments over the morality and effectiveness of capital punishment) but didn't dispute the statement.  He was aware of the ongoing issues Dean, and several other Watch Captains, were having with the subordinates of one Fergus Crowley, body-snatcher supreme and an ongoing headache despite his supposed incarceration in the quarries of the Kleimar region.

The court house was the actual magistrates' court building of the Artisan District, which was a little unusual – for some reason that had never been fully explained to Dean, the City Heralds commonly held their courts in other buildings, often business places such as mercantile exchanges or market halls, and tended to move them around every so often, presumably to prevent the owners of the buildings claiming some sort of privilege. 

He remarked on this to Sam, who shrugged and said "We were told it's to keep City Herald courts on a level with the courts circuit Heralds hold.  There are no court houses outside of Haven, so circuit judges and Heralds have to hold courts in any place that's big enough.  A lot of the time that's market halls and taverns."

"That's gotta be fun, with everyone getting sauced up first," Dean said, amused.

Sam rolled his eyes.  "Pretty sure they shut the tap.  I wonder which Herald it is today?"

"Paperwork says it's the regular Herald for this district – Hayden, I think his name is."

It wasn't.  It was a slightly built woman in her late twenties with long dark hair with a distinctive widow's peak at the front and cool dark eyes; her whole manner screamed 'badass circuit Herald'.  She also had a dressing on her right hand that was probably interfering with both her sword grip and drawing a bow, which partly explained why she was undertaking court duty. 

Privately, Dean liked the look of her.  She looked sharp and unsentimental.

"Oh hey, she's your type," Sam teased, and Dean elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

The court was filling rapidly with plaintiffs and interested parties, but the Herald noticed Dean's uniform and captain's bars immediately and gestured for him to join her by the bench.

"Dean Winchester, ma'am, Captain of the Ropewalk Watch," Dean introduced himself.  "Captain Talbot's on her way, she just wanted to make sure the prisoner was properly secured for transfer."

She nodded.  "Good.  There's no great hurry – I'm waiting for the court clerk to arrive."   She had a slight accent, not one Dean could immediately place.  "I am Herald Ziva David; Herald Hayden is unfortunately indisposed today." 

"Summer Fever?" he guessed.  It was making its usual rounds of the city, thanks to the hot weather, and only the day before his own scribe Ash had taken to his bed with it.

Her mouth tightened briefly.  "Indeed."

"Let's hope he doesn't take it too hard," Dean offered.  Summer Fever was typically a brief if debilitating ailment for most, but every once in a while a nastier version hit – in fact, it was the direct cause of Valdemar's current regency, having killed two direct heirs to the throne within a matter of weeks some fifteen years ago.

"It will be as it will be," she said philosophically.  "Ah, it sounds as though our guest has arrived." 

The court house wasn't huge, and movement in the cells below could be clearly heard through the floorboards.  Then Bela Talbot arrived.  Dean could see her masking aggravation under a professional face.

"Trouble?" he asked quietly, as she joined him and Herald Ziva at the front of the court.

"Nothing I didn't anticipate."  Her annoyance argued against that, but Dean wasn't about to dispute the statement.  He knew how little Bela liked things getting out of her control, and this whole situation had been out of her control from the moment the prisoner had managed to abscond to the Strangers Quarter.

She introduced herself to the Herald and handed over a packet of paperwork, and Herald Ziva almost immediately excused herself to go and chase up her clerk.

"It's cool," Dean told Bela softly.  "Did you see her face?  She ain't letting no one off the hook today, least of all our guy."

"Friend of yours, is she?" Bela snapped, although she kept her voice down.

"Never met her before," Dean said levelly, "but I'm pretty sure she spends most of her time kneecapping bandits on the border."

"Where's Hayden?"

"Got the Summer Fever, she says."

Bela swore under her breath.  Then the Herald was back, her face tight with frustration.

"Uh oh," Dean muttered, not liking this omen.

"There is a problem," Herald Ziva said softly.  "My clerk is sick and the staff are having trouble locating a suitable substitute."  She held up her bandaged hand.  "And unfortunately I cannot sit today without a clerk, as I cannot hold a pen right now."

Dean honestly thought Bela was going to throw a fit – not that he didn't sympathise.  A delay in the trial was another round of opportunities for the prisoner to make an escape.  The Herald didn't look happy either, probably because the number of people in the plaintiffs' seats indicated a heavy docket.

"Surely there must a clerk working in one of the neighbouring businesses who could help out just for a morning?" Bela asked, and the effort at keeping her voice level really showed.

Dean looked at the Herald.  "You need a legal clerk, right?  Someone with the right experience to take an accurate record."  She nodded, pinching the bridge of her nose, but Dean had had an idea and he patted Bela's arm reassuringly.  "I might have something, give me a couple minutes."

Sam was sitting in an aisle seat in the public gallery as near to the front as he could get, presumably the better to observe what went on.  Dean hunkered down next to him. 

"Sam, you got your kit with you today?  You know, to take notes and stuff?"

Sam looked confused.  "Of course."  He indicated his pen box and tablet.  "I want to do a write up - "

"Great!  You think you could take notes for the Herald?"

"Eh?  But what – "

"You know, like you did for the other judge."

" _Why?_ " Sam demanded in an agitated whisper.

"The legal clerk's sick and if they can't find a substitute, all the hearings'll have to be cancelled today,"  Dean told him.  "The Herald can't write it up herself, she's got a bad hand."

Sam's eyes widened in panic.  "But – I don't – "

Dean grabbed his wrist and shook it urgently.  "Sammy!  _You just did this shit already!_ "  He lowered his voice further.  "And this is a real opportunity, don't you see?  You help out a Herald and save the day, everyone's gonna know how good you are!"

For a moment he thought Sam was going to throw a fit and refuse.  But then he drew in a breath, straightened his spine ... and stood up, clutching his equipment.  "I can try."

Dean clapped him on the shoulder and led him to the front of the court.

"Herald, this is my brother Sam Winchester.  He's studying law at the Collegium, and he just got back from helping a circuit judge in Runefork."  He pushed Sam forward.

Ziva looked him up and down.  "You have good, clear shorthand?" she demanded.  "You know the terminology we use and how to write and organise legal documents?"

"Y-yes – yes, ma'm," Sam stuttered.  "I did all of that for Judge Kello last week."

She considered him for a long moment, then nodded sharply.  "Step into the back office.  I have all the equipment you'll need, but we should discuss how I manage my sessions and run through the docket together first."  She looked across at Dean.  "Thank you, Captain Winchester.  The court will be in session in a quarter-candlemark."

Bela let out a noisy breath of relief when the Herald followed Sam out of the room.  "Remind me to kiss you later."

Dean snorted.  "I'd settle for a beer instead."

"Done.  Do you really think he can handle this?"

"He handled it fine last week, even though he was madder than a hornet 'bout having it all dumped on him," Dean said with a shrug.

 

xXx

 

The trial of Captain Talbot's prisoner took most of the morning session, and was not without excitement and a couple of attempts at noisy disruption by the defendant's supporters in the public gallery.  Herald Ziva dealt with this with a combination of sphinx-like calm and the issuing of on-the-spot fines to the worst offenders.  Dean could tell that Sam was nervous at first, but he quickly settled down and even a challenge by the defendant's legal representative requiring an instant re-reading of the shorthand record Sam was taking didn't faze him.  Another attempt to derail the proceedings by trying to prevent Truth-Spell being used was summarily dismissed (Dean was astonished they even tried that, since Heralds had the singular privilege of taking whatever measures they deemed necessary without recourse to appeal by either party), and with Truth Spell came, naturally, the truth of the matter.

This was followed by the hoped-for guilty verdict, to the accompaniment of much relieved weeping from the dead boy's mother, and as Dean had hoped, the defendant was sentenced to hang the following morning.  That brought more shouting from the man's supporters, which led to the exasperated Herald clearing the court and declaring a quarter-candlemark recess while Bela's people and the Guardsmen secured the prisoner.

Sam took the opportunity to check in with Dean.  He was bubbling over with excitement and disbelief.  "Dean, they're gonna pay me!" he blurted out, and Dean couldn't quite suppress a snicker.

"I should _hope!_   You're doing them a favour, Sammy!"

"Yeah, but ... they're gonna pay me _and_ give me lunch, and Herald Ziva already asked if I could help her out with her docket in the Pottery District tomorrow and maybe the next day too!" 

"Well damn – you're buying dinner tonight," Dean joked.  "I gotta go now, but I'll come back to get you later, all right?"

Sam seized his arm and shook it.  "Thanks for making me come along with you today," he said earnestly.  Then he dashed off before Dean had a chance to chide him for having a girly moment.

"You're a good brother," Bela commented, as they left the court house.

"What – for roping him into doing a bunch of work on his holiday?" Dean said, a little uncomfortable with her comment.

"For putting him in a place where he can get noticed by important people," she retorted.  "That kind of thing matters for someone with your family's background.  He doesn't stand a chance in the legal profession otherwise, and you know it."

Dean shrugged.  "I didn't know this was gonna happen.  I just thought it'd be a good idea if he came along and watched.  Besides – family's family, you know?  Gotta do my best for 'em."

There was a pause, then she said in an odd voice, "You have an idealistic view of family, Dean.  I can't imagine where you get it from, considering what your father was like."

He wondered where she had got her information about Jon.  "A lot of my Dad's shit wasn't his fault.  And even if it was, why should I take it out on Sam and Adam?"

"Do you think they'd do the same for you?"  Bela sounded genuinely curious.

"No idea.  Does it matter?"

Her brow furrowed.  "Is it that easy to forgive your father for what he did to you?"

Her tone was even odder and Dean blinked, wondering what was going on.  "Not sure how it's relevant," he said carefully.  "He's dead.  It don't really matter if I forgive him or not."  He frowned at her.  "You getting at something here, Bela?"

That seemed to jolt her back to her normal self, and she gave him a crooked smile.  "Not really – only that your brothers don't really deserve you, you know."

Deeply uncomfortable now, Dean pinned on his most roguish smile.  "Don't tell me that, tell them!"

"I might just do that sometime," she said, amused, and she sounded genuine enough that that was it, Dean had definitely had enough of whatever weird mood was on her.

"I gotta get back," he told her.  "Good luck keeping that guy secure till tomorrow."

"Oh, I'll be sitting on him personally until they put the noose around his neck," Bela retorted, and Dean didn't think she was entirely joking.

 

xXx

 

Juggling his time and responsibilities made him late in returning to the Artisan District, and Dean had been expecting to find Sam waiting outside the court house for him.  Instead he was still inside, chatting to the Herald.

"Oh – here he is now," Sam said, relieved, when Dean walked in.

"Problem?" Dean asked, a little surprised.  "Sorry I'm late."

"May I have a private word with you, Captain Winchester?" Herald Ziva asked.

"Sure."  He raised his eyebrows questioningly at Sam as she turned away, but his brother shook his head, clearly as much in the dark as he was.

The back office was a bare, dusty, windowless room with little more than a wide desk and a couple of hard chairs, and an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling.  Ziva closed the door and gestured Dean into a chair.

"I've asked your brother if he would be willing to assist me for the next few days," she said, taking the seat opposite him.  "He did excellent work today, and I'm grateful for your quick thinking this morning."

"Not a problem, ma'am," Dean said at once.  "You're doing us a huge favour by asking him.  He's a smart kid, but he doesn't have the opportunities some of his classmates have.  It's great that he has this chance."

"I am aware," she said.  "I will be happy to speak to others on his behalf, and provide references if that would be useful to him."

"Thank you."  Dean waited, then said cautiously.  "Was there something else you wanted to say?"

"Yes."  She paused, considering her words.  "Your testimony this morning – you said you located the escaped prisoner in a hidden basement of the building he was found in.  How did you know it was there?"

Dean felt an uncomfortable twist in his stomach.  "Gut instinct," he said.  "A lot of those buildings around there, we've found folk have dug extra basements down without permits from the proctor.  Seemed like the kind of thing to check out, since we had information laid that the brothel upstairs was one of his."

"I see.  That is a good answer."  Not the most reassuring thing she could have said.  There was a long pause where she looked at him measuringly.  "My superior mentioned your name in connection with this case when I was assigned yesterday," she said abruptly.  "I was advised that you are known to the Circle as a MindSpeaker and that you had received instruction on the acceptable uses of your Gift."

Dean swallowed.  "Yes ma'am."

"I must ask you, Captain – did you use your Gift to ascertain the guilty party's whereabouts?"

Dean was pretty sure she already knew the answer, and also that she would know if he lied to her.  Not that he wanted to be the guy who tried to lie to a Herald anyway.  "Yes ma'am – that is, I lowered my shields enough to 'listen' for him."

Ziva nodded.  "Do you do this often?"

"Only where I'm reasonably sure I can account for knowing stuff another way if I'm asked.  And only when it's important."  She raised an eyebrow at this and he grimaced.  "I don't go after someone robbing a fruit stand that way, and I don't – I would never try to influence anyone's thinking.  I just ... listen.  Sometimes.  Not even most of the time, really.  The lower city's too loud."

"I see.  And I am sure you have already been warned about the dangers of being unshielded."

"Yes ma'am," Dean sighed.

Ziva's expression relaxed a little and Dean thought he detected a touch of sympathy as she said "Captain, nothing you did this time caused a problem and there is nothing I see a need to report to my superiors.  But you _must_ be careful.  Do not allow this kind of thing become a habit or a crutch in your work.  Do I need to remind you of the possible penalties if you arrest someone on the basis of something you learned through your Gift but have no regular evidence to back it up?  Worse, what will happen if it becomes generally known in your sector that you are a MindSpeaker?"

That was a nightmare that kept Dean awake some nights.  That people wouldn't trust him again was the least of it.

"As I said," Ziva said, getting to her feet.  "Nothing I see a need to report to my superiors.  But have a care, Captain.  You do good work and it would be a shame to see that put in jeopardy.  I understand that the temptation must be overwhelming – but is it worth it?"

 

xXx

 

"What kept you so long?" Sam demanded, when Dean returned.  "Is something wrong?  Did I do something I shouldn't?"

"She wanted to tell me how awesome you are," Dean retorted, giving his brother a friendly shove.  "And she said she'll give you a reference if you need it.  So you're heading over to the Pottery District tomorrow?"

Sam relaxed and grinned.  "Yeah, it's gonna be a busy day.  It's the same deal – I get paid the regular clerk's wage and they give me lunch too."

"How're you planning on getting there?"

"I don't know – do you think someone at the Roadhouse'll be heading that way?"

"Sure – maybe Tebbut or one of the other wagon-drivers can give you a ride.  Ellen'll know."  Dean steered him down the court house steps.  "C'mon, if we move fast we can get egg-and-onion pie in that cookshop off Inkleweaver Street."

"I'm paying," Sam said handsomely, patting his belt pouch.

Dean grinned.  "Damn right you are!"

 

 

**Epilogue**

 

_What are you eating?_

_Cucumber,_ Dean said, and his satisfaction at having mastered chewing and MindSpeaking at the same time made Castiel roll his eyes.  _There's like a glut of them this summer – the grocers can't give 'em away.  Ellen bought a barrel full and she's planning to make pickles.  Hey, you like pickles?_

_If I didn't like pickles, I'd have died of starvation during my childhood.  Surely you know that in the homeland if it's edible it gets pickled?_

Dean grinned.  _Or smoked or dried. And if it ain't soaked in spices, it's 'too bland'.  Yeah, I know.  You'd love my grandma – I still dream about her sour cabbage pickle._

Castiel smiled.  _How is Sam?_

_He's happier than a hog in mud – he got a paying gig in the Herald's Court for the next few days._   Once again he was able to drop all the relevant details straight into Castiel's head, and Dean didn't have to tell him how relieved he was about it all.  It was impossible to keep that kind of thing out of their conversations.

_That is a fortunate happening for him, and better still that he knows he can be valued for doing that sort of work.  Perhaps he will find his own way after all?_ Castiel suggested.

_Yeah, maybe.  I hope so._   Dean put this aside.  _So when are you coming home?_

_I think Sitwell was hoping it would rain while we were travelling, so that we could all enjoy the full experience of being on circuit.  But the weather refuses to oblige so I suspect we'll be returning in a day or so._   Castiel shifted slightly, and reached under his blankets to remove a sharp pebble from where it was pressing into his kidney.  _I for one will not be arguing if we do._

Dean was amused.  _You not enjoying a circuit Herald's life?_

_I already had plenty of experience in rough camping before this.  Even had it not been part of my training at the temple, the journey to Valdemar would have taught me more than enough._

_There no inns in Rethwellan?_

_There are, but a great deal of the road didn't pass through places where inns were readily available, and sometimes even when it did there was no space in them to be had.  I had more than my fair share of sleeping under bushes or in haystacks._

Dean snickered.  _There's an image!_

Castiel smiled.  _And no friendly company to keep a celibate priest warm.  Well, unless you count the goats that one time._

Dean nearly choked on his cucumber, although the mental image Castiel gave him was kind of endearing.  _So the goat thing runs in the family, huh?_

_Not by any design of mine, I assure you!  And how is Gabriel?_

Dean snorted.  _Dude's begging to spend a couple days in our lock-up, if you don't mind me saying, and not just because of the damn goat._

Castiel laughed softly.  _I would say that nothing he does comes as a surprise anymore, but he would take that as a challenge._

_Yeah, well prepare to be surprised ..._

Dean settled down to vent his grievances against Castiel's brother, and Castiel smiled into the darkness.

 

**_~ finis ~_ **

**Author's Note:**

> I've known right from [The Devil You Know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3851578/chapters/8598943) that there's going to be trouble with the gap between Sam's ambitions and Sam's reality. This story is just staving it off for a little while. (Which isn't to say that I know precisely what's going to happen or how right now, any more than Dean does, but both of us have a gut instinct.) There's also a little nod here to Bela Talbot's background; she was an interestingly complex character in Supernatural, and I'm trying not to lose that here.
> 
> *coughs* And yes, Ziva David has briefly joined the cast. She seemed eminently suitable when I needed another Herald. I don't plan for full-on inclusion of the NCIS cast in this – for one thing, I'd have to find a use for Gibbs and I don't want to – but these things are not always under our control ...


End file.
